


The Book of Charon

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charon's log of the Lone Wanderer's travels through the wasteland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book of Charon

_The following records were not recorded by a Brother of our Order, but have been preserved nonetheless in the interest of keeping a complete and accurate history of the Reclamation of the Wasteland, and a history of the Lone Wanderer._

_Go with peace and knowledge,_

_— Scribe Arche, 2310_

  


****

**09.16.2077**

**8:37AM:** I have been instructed to keep a log of my thoughts and feelings by my new employer. I tried to explain that I had no desires worth recording, and that my needs went as far as the next command She could give me, but She did not listen. So I will keep a log, even though She has stated She will “never breach my trust or infringe on my private recollections.”

 

Today my new employer bought my contract from Ahzrukhal. This freed me to shoot Ahzrukhal in the head. I enjoyed that, as much as I can enjoy anything.

 

My new employer seemed keen to make me understand that I was a free ghoul and under no obligation to honor the contract She holds. Eventually, She abandoned the notion when I refused to respond further. I have hope She will grow frustrated and sell my contract to another.

 

**5:49PM:** My new employer led me across the Wastes and away from the Underworld. I must admit, I have not run so far in a long time. My employer likes to make frequent jibes about my slow speed. I am learning to ignore Her irrelevant comments that are not able to be categorized as commands, orders, or suggestions.

 

She led me to a derelict store, where a man paced the isles. She decided to steal a small, broken gnome and a carbonated drink from the shelves. The man did not take this well, and I thought I would have to kill him for Her, but thankfully I did not need to waste my bullets on him as She promptly left the store and ran directly into a merc ambush.

 

The mercs held a contract on her life, so we slaughtered them before returning to Her home in Megaton. I had never been to Megaton before, as I had heard from other ghouls and some smoothskins that it was a festering, irradiated pockmark on the face of the Wastes. It is, unfortunately, not irradiated.

 

She spent some time chittering to Herself, as she seems to do, and arranging Her gnomes along Her shelves (before giving up in a fit of rage and throwing them on Her table). She made a show of treating me as a guest and not a contracted follow-guard. She gifted me with new power armor, and seemed surprised that I was capable of wearing it. I did not elaborate on the circumstances under which I received the training to wear power armor.

 

She did remark that it made my head look like a very small, pink, potato. I did not ask Her about her poor manners.

 

I do not think she understands the nature of servitude, or contracts. She may actually believe that we share some bond of kinship or companionship.

 

**09.17.2077**

**12:31AM:** My employer woke and left immediately for Evergreen Mills, which is deep into the Wasteland. I do not think She understands smoothskin sleep or rest— at least, not from what I know of smoothskin habits. I will perhaps continuing noting instances of Her oblivious nature.

 

We trekked for the better part of two hours before happening across a canyon with a traintrack. My new armor weighs me down considerably, but I managed to keep up with Her swift pace (despite frequent jibes).

 

We found a warren of corrugated metal that housed a surprising number of smoothskin raiders. In the middle of their settlement, they had trapped and caged a super mutant behemoth, which made Her very nervous; She chittered to herself more than usual. Before She could inspect the behemoth closer, more raiders emerged from their iron nests, and I killed many of them. I believe She was impressed with my marksmanship, and possibly no longer regrets the amount of money she paid Ahzrukhal for my contract.

 

When the area was cleared of raiders, and She was looting their corpses, I opened the behemoth’s cage to do battle with it. 

 

I should note here that She had not given any command except to “engage all enemies on sight,” and “follow where I lead,” and I had very clearly laid eyes on the behemoth. I told Her as much when we returned to Her home afterwards, but She did not see the fallacy of commanding a contracted guard to “engage enemies on sight” and the guard engaging an enemy on sight. I must repeat that I do not believe she understands servitude.

 

Returning to the narrative of the behemoth: upon opening its cage, it immediately rushed forth and began beating me into the ground with its fists. Without the power armor, it is probable that I would not have survived. She immediately began lobbing grenades at it, narrowly missing me, all while shrieking and running back down the canyon. While the behemoth was distracted by the explosions, I followed Her down the train tracks and through the canyon where the behemoth was too wide to follow.

 

“Charon, you motherfucking ass-backwards molerat,” She said when she pushed me to the side of the canyon, “stay put.” And then she left me with some stim packs and went back to lob grenades at the behemoth on her own.

 

My conditioning has left me with few traceable desires, but the strongest one is to follow where my employer leads and to protect Their life at the cost of my own, even when not explicitly ordered to do so. It was not easy to sit in a hollow while She ran shrieking around a behemoth, lobbing grenades for all the wild waste things to hear. But I am the best of follow-guards, and I did not move until she returned.

 

This log entry has already been exhaustingly long, but I will finish recounting the events. I will endeavor to keep future log entries shorter.

 

By the time She had finished looting the corpses of the raiders and the behemoth, the sun had risen over the Wastes (approximately 8:12AM). She loaded herself with many of their guns, armor, trinkets before descending into an underground bazaar. There, we killed a few straggling raiders, and She collected more trinkets. She has a strange fascination with cups, pool balls, and buckets. Eventually, She was unable to carry all of the things She wanted to bring to Her home, and began to burden me with them. I am strong and capable, but even my strength was taxed by the amount of weight She required me to carry. Between the both of us, we were still unable to carry all of the items She wished to retrieve, so She chittered about returning the next day. I would prefer that She did not return to this place.

 

The sun was high by the time we left Evergreen Mills for Megaton, She had to stop and retrieve a cloth bear from a cart-cage. “For my bed,” She chittered. She speaks frequently of these trinkets she retrieves, but I cannot fathom a practical use for any of them.

 

Retrieving this particular trinket was unwise in the extreme, as it was the signal for another behemoth to attack. I am told (by Her chittering) that this was unusual in the extreme, to find two behemoths so near to each other. This one, unlike its caged brother, was armed and armored. Before I could begin to attack, She ordered me to face the other direction, and not to follow Her into battle.

 

Again, I must note that it is not easy to ignore the conditioning to follow and protect the holder of my contract, even against Their wishes. It feels similar to swimming against the current in a river with no warming radiation (or what I imagine such a thing would feel like). It is... difficult.

 

She also shrieks more than is advisable during battle, especially while throwing grenades.

 

We returned to Her home by nightfall (approximately 7:17PM), and She spent the evening arranging Her trinkets. Her motor skills seem poor at best, as She spent an incalculable amount of time dropping and retrieving the pool balls from the floor while trying to place them into a bucket. I still have yet to discern a purpose for them.

 

**09.18.2077**

**10:41AM:** This morning She walked into a saloon, cocked her gun, and shot the owner in the head. I did not question Her, and She did not offer to explain (although I have suspicions about her motives). We fled town after being shot at by most of Megaton’s inhabitants and trekked to Rivet City, where She said we could “lie low for a bit.” I have my doubts that Megaton will forget that She killed the saloon owner.

 

Upon consideration, I realized that She is greatly valued in Megaton, especially by the defenseless. They greet Her at Her door some mornings with small gifts in thanks for Her deeds. I believe that She killed the saloon owner for enslaving a gentle-spirited ghoul named Gob, out of some misguided belief that She can right all wrongs. I cannot explain to her that the Wastes do not work that way.

 

**4:12PM:** We travelled to Vault 112 to pursue Her father. She does not explain in detail the whys of where we travel to, but I also do not question. I believe she has been solitary for long enough to forget that others can question. She entered the Vault, complied with the robot server, and entered a Tranquility Pod while I waited.

 

I noticed the other smoothskins in Pods like hers, and I suspected that their glazed expressions and ancient clothing did not bode well for Her survival. I admit, I did consider the possibility of Her death in this place and what it would mean for my contract. Many hours passed, though I did not note the time.

 

I was pleased when She emerged from the pod unharmed, apparently after having rescued Her father. Neither seemed to pay particular attention to me, so I hung back until She explained that we would be returning once more to Rivet City. She seemed more animated than usual upon finding her father, and her smoothskin face did not look quite as hard and brittle— though it is hard to tell what She is thinking from Her face alone, as She does not have any ghoullish quirks. I did not speak, as She did not speak to me of what had passed between them, so I merely followed as She and her father loped away over the Wastes.

 

**09.21.2077**

**9:41PM:** We arrived in Rivet City after travelling the Wastes with Her father. He is much like She is, though he runs even more quickly than She does. He does not jibe me nearly as much about being slow as She does.

 

I used a stimpack for the first time during this march, and Her face bent with joy when She discovered one missing from the bundle she had given me.

 

“I’m so glad— I thought I’d have to teach you how to apply them,” she told me.

 

I did not explain that it was not a lacking understanding of stimpacks that prevented me from applying them, but a lingering resistance to consuming my employer’s resources. She has much more need of them than I, as She does not wear power armor and frequently charges into battle without consideration for safety or wellness.

 

We also salvaged another gnome and a useless grenade for her strange collection from the junk, but I do not know when we will return to her home in Megaton to deposit her items. I fear I will I be forced to carry them until we do.

 

**09.23.2077**

It has been a longer time between entries than I would like, but much has happened since last I was able to record. Reading back over older entries, I notice that I slipped into a habit of recording her doings rather than my own, and in the few moments when I could spare time for consideration, I have decided to use this log as a way of recording and tracking Her travels across the Wastes. I cannot explain this decision, or the desire that fuels it.

 

After much shuttling about trading and exchanging caps for equipment, we set off to the Capitol Wasteland. On the slopes of Rivet City we encountered a merchant caravan and his mercenaries attacking a band of super mutants, which we wasted little time dispatching. We discovered a captive, which She set free with no request for recompense and supplies to survive the Wasteland. It is unusual to have an employer who does not continually swindle and deceive to achieve nefarious and self-centered goals.

 

I will keep this brief.

 

We travelled to the Jefferson Memorial where Her father waited to commence work on his water purification project; her chittering was particularly animated on this subject during the slower sections of our journey. Upon arrival, we were instructed by her father to “activate the flood control pump power,” which we did with little effort and only minimal wandering through cramped tunnels. I cracked my head on several lightbulbs, and was briefly concerned that they would sear away some of my very little remaining hair.

 

We were busily performing more menial tasks for Her father, crouching in squat pipes, when we saw the helicopters of the Enclave arrive. I had heard of such machines in barroom tales from a friend’s-friend’s-friend-out-West, and thought them legends told by drunks to drunks. Do not make the mistake we— I— made. The Enclave keeps their own counsel and any legends you hear of them may very well be true.

 

“We have to go,” She said to me, while I scanned the catwalks above our pipes. “We have to go, we have to go, we have to go. My father...”

 

There was more running through water pipes— I will spare you that tedium. It was tense in the moment, as we fled from and toward nearly-certain death, but certainly of no interest to anyone perusing this log. She chittered very little in the pipes, and her smoothskin face was taunt with— with something. 

 

When we returned to the central room, it was on the other side of a bulkhead that had been closed and locked. She watched her father die there, making his foolish last stand against the Enclave’s demands. I will not describe this. I refuse.

 

She led us— myself, civilians and a scientist— through the access tunnels to the Brotherhood of Steel enclosure. It was short in length, but arduous; Enclave soldiers carry good armor and plasma weapons. In one hallway, She paused, and ordered me to stand back with the civilians while she decimated a room of Enclave troops on her own. It was strong in my mind to refuse her order and follow her in, but it was... it is not possible. Even the strongest of men cannot move a mountain.

 

I will finish this entry at another time.

 

**09.24.2077**

It seems that every day piles more events for me to record. I do not enjoy this task. I do it, though it makes my head squirm uncomfortably, though I am better with a gun or a blade, because she commanded it of me. I am no Scribe of the Brotherhood to hem a history with my words; I am Charon No-name, follow-guard and hired help.

 

This does not matter. Let me continue from the last place in the record.

 

We crawled from the pipes near the Brotherhood Citadel at the very end of our strength. My strength. The scientist who guided us through the tunnels demanded entry into the Citadel— something which I would not have believed if I had not seen it myself.

 

I am certain something noteworthy and memorable happened in the conversation between Her and Elder Lyons of the Brotherhood, but I cannot account for anything besides the soft exchange of condolences and her demand for power armor training. As I stated, I am a poor recorder at best. I do recall the conversation She shared with Star Paladin Cross. 

 

“It would be my honor to escort you across the Wasteland,” Paladin Cross said. “I want to come with you.”

 

She nodded, slantways, and replied, “Perhaps later.” She did not explain why and— and I did not ask, not even later when I could have.

 

**09.25.2077**

We spent a day in the Citadel; She gathered information and returned holotags while I did my best to stay out of sight and remain living.

 

**09.26.2077**

We travelled the Wastes today looking for more things to scavenge when we happened upon a wretched little scab called Girdershade. There was a woman there who talked _ceaselessly_ about Nuka-Cola; She entertained the woman’s ramblings about soda and collecting. _I_ wondered how such a person could be born and survive to adulthood in the Wastes.

 

We were ambushed the moment we left Sierra’s shack, by a man who demanded to know exactly what Her intentions were. She played the fool about it— or— She questioned his crude language regarding his desire for sexual intercourse with Sierra, while implying that she would do the same with Sierra— or perhaps, she could not understand his implications. This is unimportant.

 

While we travelled the Wastes toward Girdershade, I lagged behind her (being burdened with _yet more cups and trinkets_ ), and happened to find a rad scorpion that I dispatched on my own. By the time I had the mind to look around, She had wandered over a hillcrest and out of sight. I thought— feard?— that she had left me, wandering toward whoever needed her most. It was momentary; she surged back over the hill waving a hand toward a gang of mercs at her heel.

 

Of minor import: she does not chitter as often anymore.


End file.
